


What Lies in Ruins

by string_cheese



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bulimia, Depression, Deviates From Canon, Disordered Eating, Dissociation, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Eating Disorder, Emetophobia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad, Self Harm, Self-Harm, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transgender, Trauma, Vomiting, sh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:01:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27171466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/string_cheese/pseuds/string_cheese
Summary: Scout is living his life, but unknown to most of the other mercenaries, he's barely alive.
Relationships: Scout/Sniper (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is very triggering and descriptive. Don't read this if those things trigger you.  
> Trigger Warnings: Extremely descriptive eating disorder, vomiting, self-harm, mental breakdown, dissociation, trauma, alcohol use, drug abuse, and references of past sexual assault.

Scout’s eyes burst open, a sheen of cold sweat covers his body. He’s trembling. He pinches his arm making sure that he is, in fact, not in a dream anymore. The young man hates it when he has flashbacks in the form of dreams. Getting them in general sucks, but in a dream, everything was so much more vivid than a foggy memory. He sighs and looks over to the clock on the bedside table. It reads 4:25 am. He was awake especially early. He got about five hours of sleep too. No use in trying to fall back into slumber, he knew that’d never happen. Scout runs his hands over his face, pulling the skin. He sits on the edge of the bed and stares into space. He thought he was better, although not completely recovered. No one can ever be alright after years of trauma, but he thought he was better. The flashbacks haven’t happened in a year or so. 

He gets out of bed and groggily stumbles over to the table. He pulls open the drawer to reveal a pack of Marlboro Lights, a lighter, and other various items. Most of the mercenaries smoked. No one knew that the Scout smoked. Sniper had his suspicions, but Scout neither affirmed nor denied them. He didn’t smoke that often, not as much as the chain-smoking Spy that’s for sure. He only smokes a couple when he's having an especially rough time. When he was a teenager he smoked all the time, a pack or two a week. At least it's “better” than his other vices. Scout swipes the pack and lighter from the drawer and puts them in his pocket. The man slips on his running shoes and leaves his cluttered room. 

The Scout walks a fair distance from the base. He didn’t want anyone knowing that he was awake and having a smoke. The medic would pester him telling him that he’s ruining his lungs. Only if he knew that he wore a binder for more than eight hours, that’d give him a scare. Once he's sure he's not in anyone’s line of sight he pulls out the pack. He takes one cigarette from it and puts the orange filter to his lips. Scout clicked the stubborn lighter and lit the cigarette. He takes a drag from the thing and holds the smoke in his lungs. It's painful, but he didn’t care. The man slowly exhales, watching as the smoke hovers around him. He tilts his head up towards the still dim sky. The sun hasn’t even breached the horizon yet. Scout takes another long drag from his cigarette. He blows the plume from his mouth watching it float into the atmosphere.

The man decides he's done with his self-destructive antics. He checks to see how many cigarettes he went through. Three, he smoked three. His trembling hand puts both the pack and lighter back into his pocket. The pleasurable buzz accompanied by the nicotine is swimming around in his head. He slides to the dirt below him uncaring if his pajama bottoms get dirty. A sigh leaves his lips and tries to enjoy this moment of peace and quiet. 

In the dim light, he looks at his trembling, bony hands. He’s thankful he can’t see himself well in this lighting. Scout is both disgusted by himself and pleased with himself for the damage he’s caused. Yeah, he’s always in pain, always shaking, cold, and tired, but he was proud of himself as bad as it sounded. He knows this isn’t normal behavior and that he has a problem. Does he care? For the most part, no.

He pushes himself off the ground and realizes he needs to take a shower. Not only does he smell like a whole tobacco factory, but his hygiene isn’t the best of late. He sighs and heads back to his room for a change of clothes.

Scout reaches his room and twists the doorknob. He walks in and shuts the door behind himself. He reaches the drawer and takes out everything he needs. Shirt, pants, underwear, socks, and shoes were on his feet. He glances over at the clock to gauge how long he was gone. It reads 4:50 am, twenty-five minutes. No one is going to be up at this hour, so he’s safe to take a shower. Scout leaves his room once again, shivering in the early morning temperature. Although it’s summer the mornings are still chilly as ever. He trudges over to the showers not excited about the upcoming shower. 

He opens one of the doors leading to the locker room quietly as he can. The darkness in the facility ensures that no one else is there. Scout flicks on the lightswitch that rests next to the door. The whole place lights up. He squints his eyes, still not used to the light. The man walks over to his locker and places his clothes onto the bench. He swivels the code into the lock and takes it off. Inside the locker lays his towel and bathing supplies. He grabs the shampoo, conditioner, and soap. He isn’t a monster, he doesn’t use 2 in 1.

Now for the hardest part, the showering part. He shakily sighs and a group of deep breaths follows, preparing himself. Scout closes his eyes. He strips himself of his baggy shirt, binder, pajama pants, underwear, socks, and shoes. He only opens his eyes to grab the supplies and to know where he’s going. He avoids looking in any reflective surface or mirror at all costs. Scout turns the knob that leads to one of the showerheads. His body bolts in shock due to the surprising presence of the cold water. The water becomes a bearable temperature. He puts some shampoo in his hand and lathers it into his hair. He scrubs harder than he should on purpose, leaving a stinging sensation. He feels it wash out of his hair from the water. He puts a bit of conditioner in his hair and makes sure he gets out all the knots in his hair. Scout wrings the conditioner from his hair. He blindly pats around searching for the bar of soap. He starts the worst part of the process. He makes sure everything is gone from his hair and body and turns off the water. Scout grabs his towel and dries himself off. The young man grabs all the supplies and heads back to his locker.

He sits on the bench and places all the shower supplies into the locker, the soap in a separate container of course. As quickly as possible, he puts on all his clothes. He throws the towel back in the locker, he’ll wash it later. He finishes his dull self-care routine by brushing his teeth and washing his face. Scout exits the building with damp hair, shivering at the sensation of the air. 

He returns to his room and sighs as soon as the door closes behind him. The man walks over to the dresser and grabs the bandages situation on top of it. He wraps them around his hands in a well-practiced motion. Next, he places his hat on his head. Now the waiting game. All he can do at the moment is wait. It’s not like he’s going to have breakfast. A plethora of energy drinks will replace that.


	2. Chapter 2

Scout returns from battle. He swings open his door and shuts it behind him. Scout tosses his headset and hat to the floor. He collapses onto the rickety bed in front of him and pulls the covers over his body while in the fetal position. The boy hugs his knees to his chest and covers his mouth as his body shakes with sobs. The salty tears flow down his face. 

He’s sick, so god damn sick. This isn't a sudden realization, but everything has become too overwhelming. During the battle, he didn’t fail to notice some prolonged glances at his arms. Scout doesn’t have any fresh cuts there, but the nasty scars remain. White and pink lines crawl all along his forearm and shoulder. He usually opts for a long-sleeve shirt or a hoodie, but it’s too hot during the summer. Especially when he’s overworking his body. So, today was the first time he’s worn a short-sleeve shirt in a while.

Scout unfurls himself from the fetal position and lays there, staring at the ceiling. He takes one. Hand and runs it under his shirt. He can feel the ribs poking from his skin and the slope to his stomach. He could eat dinner tonight, but he didn’t feel the need to. He’d end up having another panic attack or vomiting it all up. All the other mercenaries staring at him, watching him eat. They’re thinking about how much he’s eating after having no food except a couple of energy drinks. He can’t, it’s too much. He knows his eating habits aren’t good. He knows he has an eating disorder. Does he care? To some extent.

He starts to reminisce about all his moments where he acted like such a freak. That one time Sniper wanted to take a picture of him for memory's sake, but he refused. Scout went haywire and begged Sniper not to take a photo of him. His boyfriend was confused and worried but agreed not to take a picture of him. The first time they had sex was one hell of an experience. It was amazing, but not the moments leading up to it. He refused to shed his hoodie and shirt and was very nervous about the other man seeing his nether region. Sniper, of course, knows about his transness, but that doesn’t make it any less scary. Scout didn’t want his boyfriend to see his scar racked upper body and frail frame. He did see his scarred legs but, thank God, chose not to comment or do anything embarrassing. The other times they were going to have sex, he chickened out. This was due to previous traumatic experiences. The other man knows he has problems, but not the extent of his problems. Who knew one person could fuck up your life so much. Who knew one person could make you hate yourself and feel so disgusting. Who knew one person could make you feel filthy even if you’ve scrubbed your skin raw with soap. He wishes he could hold Sniper. He can’t go to him about all his baggage, though. He’d weigh their relationship down and the label weak would be upon his head.

His hands reach up to his cropped hair trying to tug at anything but to no avail. The only good thing about when he had long hair was being able to pull it out in frustration and desperation. Of course, that’s not a good thing, another bad coping mechanism. Scout results in hitting his head with his fists instead making him dizzy and confused. Better than punching something till his fists are bloody and covered in bruises. All he wants at this moment is to slice his skin open and cut to the layer of fat, it bubbling to the surface. All he wants is to bloodlet all the metallic fluid from his body. All he wants is to see the drops of red swimming in the bathtub. He can’t do that self-destructive behavior anymore. Especially since he’s a mercenary living with other men, not to mention a medic. When he lived at home with a mom that was too drunk to care he could do whatever he wanted. Scout knows that he should be thankful to be in a situation that doesn’t allow this, but he’s not. He still hurts himself, but he has limited himself to small, shallow cuts along his thighs.

Everything seems like a dream to him, nothing feels real anymore. His body is present, but it’s not. He brings his hands to his field of view and stares at them. Numb, everything is numb. The same damn numbness he feels when everything is too overwhelming. When all the darkness of his past actions and current problems get to him. Absolute depersonalization. Right now, he could kill himself. What’s the worst that could happen. Using his better judgment he decides not to do such a thing. He would be hurting the ones around him and missing the chance to make his life better.

“God, I'm so useless,” Scout whispers hoping no one can hear him. He’s a wreck. His face is flush with anger and sadness. His eyes sting from tears and his cheeks have damp lines from when he was crying. He wipes his face, trying his best to be devoid of any emotion.

He decides to quit his wallowing. This isn't possible at the moment because of his dissociative state. He forces himself anyway. He jumps out of bed and trudges over to the closet. The battle today was tiring for him. Living off of energy drinks does not do the body well, but he doesn’t care. He opens the closet door and grabs a red hoodie from the hanger. He throws it on, feeling comfort in the heavy fabric and warmth. He lays back into bed, starting up at the ceiling.

“Scout?” the familiar voice of Medic sounds. Scout bolts upright, shocked at the intrusion.

“Uh, yeah?” Scout says, hoping his voice didn’t waver. He starts picking at his bandaged hands, anxiety bubbling up in his chest. He isn’t anxious around people, but this is a different situation.

“Dinner is ready,” Medic starts. “I thought I would let you know.”

Scout decides to eat dinner. After all, it would be rather suspicious if he didn’t. He’s already shown signs of his persona faltering during battle today. He doesn’t need any nosy bastards, especially Spy, being suspicious of him.

He gets up from the bed, still in his dissociative state, and his body leads him out the door. He walks over to the kitchen and glances over to the table where most of the other mercenaries sit. He gets a cup from one of the cabinets and fills it with water from the cabinet. He walks over to the dinner table and places the cup down. Scout pulls out the chair and sits down. The anxiety festering in his chest gets worse. He doesn’t know why he agreed to eat dinner tonight. It feels like he’s going to throw up, and it isn’t even intentional. 

Medic made dinner tonight. The dish graciously placed in front of him is a simple dish of spaghetti. He observes his surroundings making sure no one is looking at him. The others are making calm conversations with one another. Demoman is a bit loud, but that isn’t anything new. He knows he should talk, be his outgoing self, but he doesn’t have the energy for it. Scout is so tired of putting up a persona when he’s not happy. Shakily, he picks up the fork and twists it so the noodles wrap around the utensil. He puts it up to his mouth and chews it. As soon he swallows the first bite of food he takes a big gulp of water.

“Aye, not so talkative t’night,” Demoman slurs. Scout cringes at the obvious mention of him. The drunk asshole had to mess everything up.

“Yeah, da whole mission got me exhausted,” Scout says in his usual loud tone. “Don’t feel like talkin.”

From that no one else tries to add to the conversation, they continue to talk with each other. Scout is thankful that Sniper isn’t here to badger him with questions and that the Spy isn’t being super nosy. He eats the pasta in peace and gets halfway through the heaping amount and a glass of water.

By the time he finished, the rest of the mercenaries had finished and left the table already. He gets up from the chair and pushes it in. The man takes his dish and glass to the sink, no dish duty for him today. “Thanks for da food, Doc!” He smiles, saluting with two fingers while walking back towards the exit.

As soon as he reaches his bedroom, he closes the door behind himself and sinks to the floor. Scout covers his head in his hands. “I’m such a failure,” he whispers. Earlier, he thought to himself that he’d keep the food down, but he can’t. He shoots upwards and walks into the small bathroom that connects his room to Pyro’s. Scout makes sure to lock both of the doors, so nobody walks in on him. In a frenzy, he tears the bandages from his hands. He pushes up the seat of the toilet and kneels in front of it. In an upsettingly familiar way, he shoves his fingers down his throat making him gag. Scout closes his eyes as some of his stomachs’ contents spill into the toilet. The smell is putrid, but he continues. Once again, the fingers snake down his throat. He gags and more of the dinner comes up. Between the burning in the throat and the disgusting sounds, it was not a pleasant experience. He empties his stomach until bile is the only thing left. He dries heaves until the sensation of vomiting and the trace amounts of bile are gone. His chest is tight and burning. He stands up and looks at himself in the mirror. Tears running down his face, blotchy cheeks. What a mess. Scout flushes the vomit and goes to wash his hands and face. For good measure, he washes his hands two more times. 

He picks up the toothbrush that belongs to him, wets it, and squeezes a pea size of toothpaste onto it. He puts it into his mouth and begins to brush. The man doesn't know how long he's been brushing his teeth and staring at his reflection. Another interruption, a knock at the right-hand door.

"Are you almost done in there?" the voice of an unmasked Pyro speaks. He prays to whatever lord is above that Pyro didn’t hear him and what he was doing.

"Uh, yeah, almosht done!" Scout says with a mouth full of toothpaste. He spits the minty paste into the sink and washes off the toothbrush. He makes sure the bathroom is orderly and that there are no signs of his previous actions. He throws away his bandages that lay across the counter. "Sorry that took so long!" he says while going into his room, closing the left-hand door.

"It's okay," they say from behind the door.

Scout sighs and slides open one of the drawers in the dresser. He takes out the same oversized shirt and pajama pants from the heap of clothes shoved into the drawer. It's organized, but not to the untrained eye. He closes his eyes and strips himself of his shirt, pants, and other miscellaneous things. He considers sleeping in his binder but decides not to. He should do at least one good thing today. Begrudgingly, the man takes off the binder. He throws on the sleepwear and shoves the discarded clothes into the hellish drawer.

The man trudges to the light switch and flicks it off. He crawls into the bed and pulls the covers to his chin. Scout is very tired, both mentally and physically. Since the next day is Saturday, he has no reason to wake up early. Within an hour he falls into sleep, snoring softly.


	3. Chapter 3

Scout wakes up with a groan. The room is dim, but it’s daytime by the slivers of light shining through the closed blinds. He turns his head to face the clock on the nightstand. In bright red numbers, it reads 7:22 am. He slept for ten hours since he passed out at around nine last night. Even after a healthy amount of sleep, he’s still tired and groggy. He most definitely doesn’t feel like taking a shower today, so that will have to wait for tomorrow. 

He kicks the covers off of himself and throws himself out of bed. The man walks over to the dresser for a change of new clothes. Scout puts on his undergarments, socks, black jeans, a random shirt he found, and a Harvard hoodie. He, of course, has never attended Harvard, but since it’s in Massachusetts, he thought he would give the place a visit. He puts on a beanie since his slightly grown out hair is a pain to deal with.

Since today is Saturday, he has nothing to do, and he’s depressed, why not get fucked up. He reminisces at the fact that last night, he didn’t visit Sniper. Hopefully, the other man isn’t suspicious at that and decides to check up on him. That would not be good. Scout opens the drawer that stores the cigarettes, but he grabs something different. A bottle of pills. Vicodin to be exact. Laying on its side, nudged into the corner of the drawer, is a 12 oz bottle of vodka. Drinking and taking painkillers is dangerous, but he doesn’t care. Random risky actions are normal for him. Also, nothing bad has happened when he’s done this before, so why should he fear now. 

Scout opens the pill bottle and puts the tiny white pill into his mouth. He puts the bottle back into the drawer and grabs the vodka. He cracks open the seal and swallows the pill down with the clear liquid. He cringes at the taste of the bitter drink. He ignores his body’s reaction to it and takes another swig. It burns as it goes down, but in a pleasurable way. The vodka makes him feel warm and fuzzy. The man would have chased it down with an energy drink. It’d take too much effort to get one from the fridge in the kitchen, though. He walks over to the bed and plops himself into it. Scout picks up the sketchbook and pencil that's thrown on the bed. He opens it and turns to a blank page. He begins sketching out random things, drawing without any ideas.

He's sitting up against the wall, bottle in his hand and a pencil in the other. He continues to take moderate swigs, and he gets halfway through the bottle, about four shots. His head swims with the fuzzy, loose feeling. Now he feels drunk, and on top of that, the pill begins to kick in too. Scout twists the cap back onto the bottle and places it on the bed. He sketches pictures of random people he thought of on the spot. The Vicodin gives his mind a distant feeling. He feels so content and warm within his body, and every single movement feels so pleasant. Everything spins when he moves his head back and forth. That might be the alcohol, though.

Out of nowhere, he closes his sketchbook, having given up on drawing, and places it on the bedside table. He opens the drawer and puts the bottle back into its place. He didn't want to get any drunker. Scout stumbles up and walks towards the bathroom to brush his teeth. He understands that he reeks of alcohol. He knows that brushing his teeth won't get rid of the smell, but it'll help. The man walks over to the bathroom’s door handle and pulls it downward clumsily pushing it open. He balances himself against the wall as he walks into the bathroom so he doesn’t fall over. He flicks the light switch on, so he can see what he’s doing. He takes the toothbrush from the cup and runs it under the water. He grabs the tube of toothpaste and squeezes a bit too much onto it. He brushes his teeth and stares at himself in the mirror since there’s nothing else he can do. 

Scout’s hair is an unruly mess, sticking up in every direction. There are bags under his eyes with a dark hue from his lack of sleep. His pupils are small so the blue of his eyes looks even brighter. His cheekbones make his already slim face seem narrower. The baggy hoodie he’s wearing shows his collarbones. They protrude from his skin making him look sickly. He snaps out of his daze. He figures it has been long enough and spits out the toothpaste into the sink. He turns on the water which rushes the contents down the sink. He puts the toothbrush back into the cup. Scout holds his hands under the water getting a small pool of water in them. He splashes the water onto his face, trying to wake himself up. He dries off his face and hands with the hand towel. He turns off the light, wavers back into his room, and shuts the bathroom door behind himself. 

The combination of substances makes his head foggy, but he feels happy. He’s so happy. Even though it only lasts a little it’s worth it, so he thinks. Scout would go to watch the television, but then everyone would find out about his vices. It’s normal, albeit a little uncomfortable when Demoman is drunk, but Scout. That’s completely unheard of. The Spy would notice he’s not only drunk since he’s more observant than the other mercenaries. If he ran into Sniper, he’d flip his shit. He doesn’t know about Scout’s past and his substance abuse. He knows the risks, but being in his room is so boring. He hopes the other mercenaries are out doing their own thing. 

He looks over to the clock perched on top of the side table. The clock reads, 9:40 am. It’s been about two hours since he woke up. The high will last for about another couple of hours or so. He, for no clear reason, tip-toes over to his door. He cracks open the door, sticking his head out of the door. He looks up and down the hallway, making sure nobody is coming. Everyone else's door isn't open. Good. He opens the door and steps out. Scout closes the door behind him. As sober as possible he walks the short distance to the recreation room. The room and the adjoining kitchen is empty, so no awkward conversations will occur.

The man walks over to the television and powers it on. He switches through the channels until he finds something he wants to watch. He stops when it lands on Star Trek. He may not admit, but he’s a nerd. He loves reading comics and watching nerdy television shows. That’s what prompted him to pick up drawing. Scout absentmindedly watches the television not paying attention to what’s happening on-screen. He’s too drunk and high to accurately track the plotline of the episode. 

Then, a wave of nausea hits him. He hunches himself over to try to calm the dizzying feeling. As much as these substances are fun, the nausea they cause for him is unbearable. Every time he moves he feels sick. The pill on its own makes him sick to his stomach in a couple of hours, but in combination with the alcohol, it’s worse. He can’t go to the doctor about this. He knows he won’t die, he’s had the same experience all the other times he did this. As much as the feeling is absolute hell and isn’t fun in the long-run, he can’t keep himself away from the substances. Scout knows he isn't going to vomit, he’s never able to vomit during this part of the high.

The man grasps his stomach and stumbles over to the television. He turns it off. Not like he was watching it anyway. As quickly as he came into the recreation room, he left. Scout turns the handle to his room and promptly shuts himself inside. So much for entertainment. Although his judgment is heavily impaired, he knows that he shouldn’t be in that room while nauseous. The other mercenaries will become concerned and find out about his terrible vices. The last thing Scout needs right now is a talking to from the Medic or the shitty excuse of a father. He’s heard those talks from his concerned mother with the same problems.

Scout crawls into the bed, pulling the covers up to his shoulder. He tries to focus on the nice effects to ignore nausea. The Vicodin makes him feel distant. Kind of like dissociation, but he’s there. It makes him hyper-aware of his body. He can focus without actually absorbing any of the information. It makes his body feel nice in an unexplainable way. The alcohol clouds his judgment and keeps him warm. He’s as content as he can be. Feeling nauseous, high, and drunk is better than his constant suicidal ideation. 

A sudden knock at the door jolts him from his depressive state. He is in no mood to talk to anyone at the moment, and the substances make him irritable.

“Go away!” he exclaims. 

“Scout, it’s me,” Sniper replies. This isn’t good. The absolute last person he wants to see right now is him.

“I,” he starts. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Do ya need the doc?” he asks, concerned.

“NO!” the younger man shouts. “I-I mean, no.”

“You’re really worrin’ me, love,” he says. Scout can practically sense the frown on his face right now. “I’m comin’ in.”

“Fine,” Scout says in defeat. Once the other man has his mind set on something, he usually won’t give up.

He can hear the door open, footsteps, and the click of it closing. Sniper makes his way towards the other man. He sits on the bed, it slightly sinks under his weight. He puts his hand on his shoulder that’s currently covered by the blanket, trying to reassure him.

“What’s wrong?” Sniper asks.

Scout is shaking due to the anxiety of his boyfriend being so close to him. He’s going to figure out what’s wrong with him any second now, and he’s not going to be happy. 

“I don’t feel good, babe,” he finally replies. He shrugs his shoulder trying to hint to move his hand off his shoulder, but it doesn’t work. 

“Ya get the flu or somethin’? You’re lookin’ pretty pale,” he chuckles, trying to diffuse the awkwardness. Scout just chuckles too, trying to seem okay. In response to this, he pulls some of the covers off himself and sits up.

“Nah, prolly just, uh, exhausted I guess,” he slightly slurs. “This whole week’s been pretty, pretty stressful. Maybe I need a kiss to feel better.” He immediately regrets his decision. Sniper would be able to taste the trace amount of alcohol on him. Also, he’s just using this kiss as a way to hide his inebriation.

In conflict with his previous thoughts, Scout closes his eyes and jokingly makes a kissy face. He hears the other man laugh. A calloused hand makes its way under his jaw, and he closes the space between them. Their lips move against each other. Scout being the gremlin he is, he slips his tongue into the other’s mouth. The once gentle kiss becomes rough and desperate. The younger man moves his hands onto Sniper’s hips and tugs himself closer. He teasingly moves a hand to touch the other’s skin, smiling into the kiss when he feels him flinch. They separate from each other, cheeks flushed and lips red. For the first time, Sniper can get a good look at his boyfriend from behind his shades. He looks love drunk or just drunk. His pupils are practically non-existent, his blue eyes are cold, and his skin is sickly pale. The man is also slightly swaying from side to side.

“Love, look at me,” he says in a worried tone.

Scout’s eyes wide in shock. His face flushes, and not from cute embarrassment or sappy romance. All he can feel is the heaviness of guilt and shame. There’s nothing he can do now. He knows.

“Are ya… high?” Sniper says in a serious voice.

He looks down in shame and cracks his knuckles. “Yeah. Um, not to make things worse, but I’m drunk too.”

The younger man flinches when he feels a pair of arms wrap around his torso. He leans into the hug, trying not to make this bad situation worse. He feels wetness on his cheek. Scout realizes that he’s crying. The tears flow freely down his cheeks, and he buries his head into Sniper’s shoulder. In return, he wraps his lithe arms around the other man.

“What, did ya take?” he asks. He rests a hand on top of Scout’s head, rubbing his hand through his hair.

He mumbles into Sniper’s arm, “Vicodin.”

The other man doesn’t get mad, demand an explanation, or feel disgusted by him. He just lovingly holds him close, letting the smaller man cry.

“Hey, I love ya,” Sniper says, smiling.

Scout looks up, his gaze meeting with the other. He smiles and says in return, “I love you too.” The tears have stopped. His face is shiny and his eyes sting from the salty tears. “Anyway, I think you deserve an explanation or some shit.”

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he responds. 

“Okay, so like, I got nothin’ to do today and decided hey, why not get fucked up! That’s obviously not the main reason, but whatever,” Scout slurs. He has stopped masking his drunkenness, there’s no point in hiding it anymore. “So basically, I spiraled outta control. Not cause the drugs but in general. Ya know, I gotta lotta problems, right.”

Sniper pulls him into another hug and rubs his hand through his hair again. In a husky, comforting voice he replies, “Don’t feel like ya need to hide this stuff from me, love.”

“I know,” Scout states. “I was scared to say somethin’ to you, but now I know that’s dumb. Not really ready to tell you everything, though.”

“It’s alright, Jeremy,” Sniper, or Mundy, says. When he uses his actual name instead of his class name then he’s serious. He flushes at the use of his name and cuddles more into his side.

Jeremy playfully brings his boyfriend down into the bed with him. Their arms and legs tangle together as they hold each other close. The two lay there in comfortable silence, not daring to fall asleep. It’s way too early for that. The younger man intertwines his hand with Mundy’s and smiles. The two are peaceful and as content as they can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was basically a vent fic


End file.
